Careful What You Say (Children Will Listen)

Hello to You,

Are you familiar with German cautionary tales? I am, unfortunately. If not, firstly watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOVSp-fYUQc

Then read this:
My Youth Theatre company performed this to some children today. They weren't impressed, despite perhaps the best devising I've ever done being put to great use, with the inclusion of lipstick, placards and lion masks for extra effect. Cretins. We did one of the ones in the video; the thumb-sucking one. As documented above, his thumbs get cut off at the end, which I think is a bit extreme for a small habit- although those who incessantly chew gum should have their jaws broken. We also did one about a boy who fidgets at dinner, making his parents displeased, and I thought that there wasn't much consistency between the punishments of the children- a girl burns to death after playing with matches, and this guy's parents are only displeased! Bloody hell. We did another one about a hunter and a rabbit-esque thing, but I'm not too sure where that was going. Down a well, I think.

Then we had to devise an original one. Oh Christ, I hear you thinking. The group leader 'came up' with the idea of some children who wouldn't be quiet, so a barber cut their tongues out. Originality at work. Instead, we did a thing about this girl who watched too much TV, had her eyes go square, and then ripped them out. I feel that 'lol' is the correct word here.

On the subject of children's stories, I've written my own for English Language. It's the Three Little Zompigs and it's great. It was originally Little Red Riding Zombie, but then I found out that something similar was already in existence, so I tweaked it slightly. Here's the original opening, followed by the revised edition- see if you can spot the difference:
'It was half-past ten and Mummy Zombie said
"Off you go, little child of the undead,"'

'It was half-past ten and Mummy Zompig said
"Off you go, little pigs of the undead,"

Cryptic, ain't it?

I hope it goes well, as I'm making an effort by creating felt characters, that make zombies/zompigs look adorable. Who knows? Perhaps you'll be seeing it on a bookshelf near you soon! Doubt it.

Yours zombierifically,

M.

P.S. If anyone steals my concept (again), I will make you into a zombie. And throw pigs at you. Good-day.

P.P.S. If you got the Sondheim title reference, extra brownie points. Unless, of course, you also steal my concept. Then you get minus points, as well as the aforementioned threats. Yeah, be scared.

Brizzle my Shizzle

Dear You,

I've been off at more uni open days. Today's was Bristol, and it was very nice. the town was pretty, I need to be on the Theatre And Film course, and they have something called 'Wingardium Levio-soc'; a Harry Potter society.

As I'm rather shallow, I judge the universities mainly on the quality of free shit they give out. Goldmiths had Chupa Chups (and the highest crime rate in the country, so ta-ra Goldsmiths) and Royal Holloway had chocolate. Ooh, chocolate... But Bristol had nothing! This made me think, however, that a good university doesn't need to pimp itself out with free tote bags to make itself look good. I just really want to get in...

Oh, and I won £2.70 on that Euromillions ticket. Well done me.

Yours concisely,

M.

157,000,000 Shades of Money

Dear You,

With the prospect of perhaps winning £157 million tomorrow, I naturally bought a lottery ticket. This seems to be one of my only tastes of gambling so far (the last lottery ticket I bought was on my 16th birthday- the night before that 100 millionaires thing before the Olympics or whatever), and will have to suffice until I am eighteen and can frequent Bingo Halls, mingling with old dears and middle-aged men whose lives have taken a wrong turn.

Anyway, this topic of conversation rather dominated our bus journey home, and mainly involved us discussing what we would buy. Here's my list:
- An alpaca farm
- A fleet of Segways
- A fleet of micropigs
- Houses in New York, London and Hollywood
- Shares in Disney
- A theatre
- A double-decker bus, in which I would put on plays
- A campervan (my friend smugly reminded me that she has a campervan. I told her that I'd give her some of my money. I lied.)
- A harp and lessons
- A homeless shelter (for homeless people, not me; keep up, I now have three houses)
- Disneyland
- A wok

I think I'd that's a worthwhile expenditure. Oh yes, and I'd fund a Smash reunion film.

In other news, it's my Grade Eight flute exam next week and I'm considering bludgeoning the examiner to death with said woodwind instrument, filling out the mark sheet myself, and giving myself almost full marks except on scales. If anything, I'm honest. On the other hand, I may buy my way through with the £157 million I'm inevitably going to win.

Yours hopefully,

M.

Filming Larks

Dear You,

This week, college is making a DVD to promote itself. Deciding that having people saying things like "I like drama here because I like to pretend to be other people" and "You're even allowed to eat your own food in the refectory!" (which is a lie), about seventy-five billion years late, in my opinion, they have decided to go arty. The idea is to have stop-motion people, with pictures being taken so we look a little jittery but, as I said, arty. This does mean that we have to move incredibly slowly, so the other day I was sitting on a field slowly applauding some people slowly playing football. This involved some very challenging acting on my part- I had to pretend to be enthusiastic about sport, and for an extended length of time. I did refuse to participate in the actual sport playing, mainly because I believe that shorts are the work of the devil, and not at all to do with the fact that I can't play football.

Today was fun. We did a scene set in a drama class (I felt at home there), and were allegedly in a play about war, because we only do depressing stuff in drama. We had to bring in WWII costume- as an eager beaver with an ex-RAF father, I was the only one who did. Looking rather dashing in a flight suit, the directory people, in their infinite wisdom, said that I should be dying, so I was liberally splattered with fake blood. It went in my hair, in my helmet (cheeky) and on my fingers. I would normally have minded the latter, but the blood consisted of treacle, syrup and food colouring, so I had no qualms with licking blood off my fingers. I still have sticky stuff in my hair though- euphemism very much intended.

I missed out on a mini-festival yesterday (because that's what all teenagers do after exams) because I went to Royal Holloway's open day. I've sort of fallen in love. It's like Hogwarts!!!

We finish the filming tomorrow, and we're expected to bring in some authentic-looking A Level results. Where I'm supposed to get those I've no idea, so I'll probably steal somebody else's. To be fair, that's what's going to happen on actual results day, so it'll be good to get some practice in.

I'm off to wash my hair,

Yours extra-specially-slowly,

M.

Return of the Political Stance

Dear people that oppose the same sex marriage bill,

Get over yourselves. That's right- go and hate on somebody else. Better still, why not go to Iraq and celebrate the executions of those filthy gays. Tonight, a handful of MPs or something are debating whether registrars can refuse to marry gay couples. I would genuinely like to know this:
Is it legal for a registrar to refuse a couple of a different ethnicity because of racist views?
If not, then why do some believe that gays are any different- skin colour or sexuality, it's all a lucky dip. If so, however, we live in a fucked-up country.

And boo fucking hoo if you're worried about Christians being affected by gays getting married. How in Jesus' arsehole does it harm you? I'm sorry, but how long has it been legal for people to express their Christianity in this country? Yeah, try a mere 46 years. Furthermore, here's a fun game for you:
Religion and sexuality. One is a choice, one is not. You do the matching, and tell me that gays shouldn't marry.

And why is are so many countries governed by religion? The rights of human beings dictated by a talking cloud, who potentially doesn't even exist, instead of by the humans who deserve the rights! And it's a choice to think this way- why not take a break from being a prick? Bloody madness.

And I'm sorry, stuffy old Conservatives who think that gays are an abomination, but you'll be dead soon, so how does it affect you? Actually, how does it affect anyone besides the gays it actually affects? Oh wait, it doesn't. And if you're a Daily Mail-reading, god-fearing bigot, here's a spot o' news:
people marrying each other doesn't tear your 'fundamental human rights' to gay shreds that are covered in the gayest of glitter and feathers and do anal. Do you not see the irony in how your 'pursuit' of the rights you already have- it's been legal to be you for quite some time, as I mentioned before- is diminishing the rights of those who have been able to be open about themselves since only 1967? The Netherlands legalised homosexuality in 1811, and Vietnam has never outlawed it. I like the word 'outlawed' there, because it suggests a really camp highwayman stopping a carriage and saying "Your money or your life or those fabulous shoes!" Apologies for the gay stereotype there, but it's what I would've done had I lived in the dark ages (aka pre-1967). And due to their law that rewards being gay with a hearty death penalty, I am henceforth boycotting United Arab Emirates Airline, and shall throw things at the telly whilst screaming "Pricks!" I suggest you do the same.

The bottom line is that we live in a (supposedly) civilised society, where fairness, equality and freedom should be encouraged and celebrated.

Sort it out, UK.

Yours politically (again, sorry),

M.

P.S. I'm sorry for all of these opinions on shit; I'll be back to telling you to eat frozen peas as soon as possible.

Mother. Wat r u doin. Mother. Stahp.

Dear You,

Just a short note to say:
MOTHER PHONED IN TO COMPLAIN. If you don't understand my pain, read my previous blog post. So now, one is supposed to return to Maths on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I haven't been formally told of this, so I may have to just not go. Lol.

Also, after discovering that you don't need to have an account to use Omegle, I've become slightly addicted. I've decided that for every person who asks me to send them 'nude pics', I shall reply with a link to this blog, simply to boost my pageviews because I need internet statistics (including likes, comments, Farmville 2 friends and pageviews) to make me feel okay about myself.

Here's one of my latest exploits:

I'm hilarious.

Yours Omegley,

M.

One, Two, Free

To You,

It's hit me. Like a ton of bricks, to quote Hairspray.

I am psychic.

Here's the thing: I was told a few days ago that my Lit class wasn't on today, leaving me with the joys of double Maths this morning. Now, because I'm not a crazy person, I shall be dropping Maths next year, but clearly not doing it for the last four weeks of term would be MADNESS. I told my mother that going in today would be pointless, as I don't listen to my Maths teacher who, quite frankly, would be better suited to teaching a school of boring teacher wannabes. My cat is a better teacher than him, and I don't have a cat. My mother said no.

Anyway, when I got there, I said to my friend "I have a feeling Maths'll be cancelled- don't ask me how, I just know." And, lo and behold, when I got there (a little late, thanks to the brilliance of the bus company), my teacher said "If you're not doing it next year, you can go."

I'd travelled for an hour, crossing borders of counties unfathomable (Cheshire), paying £2.70 for the privilege.

I texted my mother, and she told me she was complaining to the college, although it was slightly her fault. Now I'm scared that I'll have to go back to Maths, but I'd rather sell my own skin than go back to that shithole.

Yours freely (hopefully),

M.

P.S. It was the Tony Awards the other day. I didn't win, but there's always next year.

Great = Sort of Alright

(Spoiler Alert! If you've not had a chance to see the film yet and don't want to know any plot points, reading the fucking book)

Dear You,

Somewhere on my bookshelf is a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby' with a bookmark sandwiched between approximately pages five and six. Bearing in mind that this has remained unchanged since about three years ago, I should have been a little more cautious when going to see the new film version.

I mean, I like Baz Luhrmann; I know about 95% of the words to 'Moulin Rouge!' I liked the filming and imagery, as well as the modern/jazzy music mashups, but I felt that, fundamentally, it was the story that was lacking. Sorry, F., whatever that may stand for.

It was basically about people loving each other and being too scared/fecking stupid to tell each other. There was also some Beyoncé which, to be fair, is never a bad thing. Some people also died, which spiced a fairly bland plot up.

It was quite lucky, really, that we were in an old-fashioned, independent cinema; not least because the tickets and popcorn were cheaper, but because we were treated with an interval- and let me tell you, my arse was slipping into a Tobey Maguire-induced coma, and I was craving an orange ice lolly.

Whatever, really, it's up to you; go and see it if you like- if not, don't (Christ, I'd make a fabulous film reviewer). Simple as. But, if pushed, I'd give it two and a bit stars. Next Roger Ebert, me.

Yours unimpressedly,

M.

P.S. I've got a 'progression day' into Year 13 tomorrow, and I'm considering pretending I've died to get out of it...

The Worst Thing Ever in the World. Ever.

Dear You,

I feel as though I have found the root of all evil. No, it's not racism, homophobia, drugs, war, murder, whatever.

It's when people dress their children in matching clothes.

Yesterday, I saw two toddler sisters in the same spotty fleece, presumably Boden (note to prospective parents; if you dress your children in Boden, they'll develop a complex and grow up to resent you), and matching jeggings, which are the horrific results of an experiment done by scientists who liked leggings but thought they'd be better if they were more like jeans. They weren't, but that's beside the point. The point is: these children looked IDENTICAL, if not for the age/size difference.

This reminded me of when I once went swimming (like when I once did exercise)  and I saw a family where the dad was wearing what the eldest son was wearing, who was wearing what the middle son was wearing, who was wearing what the youngest son was wearing. It was difficult to stop myself from pushing them into the simulated waves below.

Not only is it an horrendous fashion statement- and one that really should be punishable by death/parenting courses- it's a bit of an insult to your child. Perhaps they feel that their identities don't matter, that they are just a 'child', along with their similarly identity-less siblings. I'm just glad my parents didn't dress me in the same clothes as my sibling, although that could be more to do with the fact that I have a sister. However, they did dress us in Boden, so I don't call them 'Mum' or 'Dad' any more.

Furthermore, whilst walking through the park the other day- avoiding the newly-refurbished play area, where there are some crazy exercise machines disguised as 'fun'- I noticed some very disappointing conditioning of children from a young age. Girls were pushing pink prams, boys kicking blue footballs; are these not telling the nation's children how they are expected to act in later life? Why can't boys take on a childcaring role, while more women pursue athletic options; sadly, this is a shocking reflection of modern society, and I believe that the balance will not be restored while we still call football for women 'women's football' but for men we call it 'football'. To be honest, I don't give a shit about football, but I'd like it if it could be a little less discriminatory. Cough John Terry.

I mentioned earlier about identities. While dressing your children in matching garments is a heinous crime, it's certainly not the worst. Naming your children after yourself is. If I see another 'Jr.' ANYWHERE, I shall go to the parents' house(s) and punch them in the eyes and tell them to stop being such egomaniacal pricks. How is your child going to cope living in the shadow of the previous owner of the name? And when they get older, are they still worthy of being called a 'junior'? Bloody hell, it's worse than giving your child a weird name like 'Admire', 'Tron' or 'Jesus', the last of which makes you look desperate to get into heaven.

So, in conclusion; if you're a parent, don't be stupid. Children don't want to look like their siblings, they want treehouses, Disney films and ice cream. Give them that.

Oh yes, and make sure they know the difference between 'two' and 'too', as well as knowing two poems by heart, in case they are ever stuck in a lift.

Yours judgementally,

M.

P.S. You know those plastic bin-shaped traffic things- they have arrows on? Well, anyway, I saw a melted one yesterday. It looked like it'd gone: "Oh, what's the point? Who actually pays attention to me? I'm going to lie down here forever and pretend I'm dead."

Either that or the sun had got it, but I'm fairly sure it was depression.

Warning: Political Stance Ahead

Dear You,

I've been following this gay marriage debate with earnest, discontent and gayness for the past few weeks, and I must say that I'm more than a little miffed when those stuffy old men bring up the Bible and stuff. I mean, it's fine to worship a book written by lots of people thousands of years ago about arks and crosses and fig leaves (saucy), but to let it interfere in the governing of a country is foolish- it should be governed by people, not massive bearded men on clouds with a questionable existence.

And what's more, if you're going to throw a Leviticus-shaped spanner into the works of EQUALITY, perhaps you shod be a tad more consistent? Like not eating fat or blood (gutted if you're a black pudding fan of a Christian), drinking alcohol in holy places (even more gutted if you've taken Communion; hell for you!), working on a Sunday (or a Saturday if you're a twat and think a week starts on a Sunday) and trimming your beard which, if I'm not mistaken, means that the houses of Lords and Commons should really be crawling with rampant facial hair. And let's not even start with mixed fibres, because I'm not wearing double denim to escape Satan, who (whisper it) is a lot of bollocks himself. And wasn't there something about not making images of God? If so, I'm fairly sure the Renaissance, with its floaty Michelangelo pointing God-paintings, should be condemned as blasphemy, right?

But no, we're going to focus on one aspect of the Bible; that two people shouldn't be in love and have nice lives. And my main issue with this book is: when's the sequel out? And I want a nicer, less condemning sequel please, where one isn't reprimanded for 'not standing in the presence of the elderly' (Lev. 19:32).

Really though, I'd like to thank all the heterosexuals that have supported this cause. Personally, I wouldn't like to get married in a church- I find Christianity as relevant as the existence of Nigel Farrage, but each to their own- but on behalf of all gays everywhere, I appreciate your open-mindedness and good-person morality. Well done to you, and you can come to my wedding, which will be in Disneyland, with the theme that everyone must come as a Disney character of the opposite gender. I'm being Ariel and shall be carried down the aisle on a massive shell. Who's excited?

Over tea this evening, my mother said that even though we disagree, democracy is about letting people have their opinion. I'm not right wing at all, but I thought that people who are pricks should be drowned. And I'll leave you with this fantastic quotation:

And the lyric 'hasa diga eebowai' from The Book of Mormon, which I'll leave you to translate. 

Yours gaily/gayly,

M.

P.S. Thank fuck Matt Smith is leaving Doctor Who. That is all.

Medical Exploits

Dear You,

Today, I experienced a learning curve in my life.

I pissed into a pot a stranger gave me.

It was for a chlamydia test, but I'm fairly sure I know the result- unless there's been some crazy change to the universe whereby virgins can now get STDs. Despite a fairly spoilerish circumstance, I basically did it to get the free stuff they were offering. They had chocolate, t-shirts (with slogans such as 'Rubber Up, Duck'; dutty), Harry Styles or Ant and Dec masks. However, I panicked and went with an 'iPhone Trumpet' which is a bit of silicone you put your phone in and it allegedly makes the music louder.

It doesn't.

Yours chlamydia-less,

M.

P.S. Found a new love for this guy:

And also for his Harry Potter and Villain songs. Maybe he'll marry me...

It Happened Again (Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Linguine)

Dear You,

As you may be aware, I find injections hilarious. And I had one yesterday; I managed to keep a straight face while the nurse was doing it- tremendously difficult- but the second I'd closed the door, I basically fell on the floor with mirth. It did get a couple of strange looks from passing doctors, but I'm not sure how much I care. It was rather lucky my mother was there to drive me home- I'm not sure how well I would've fared walking home cackling like a happy witch. She said it made a nice change; the last time she took my sister for a blood test, she passed out in the car park. Twice, I think. They retell the story quite a lot, with my mother having to haul my inert sister into her tiny Honda. Only one of them finds it funny- guess which one.

So I guess having fun at the doctor's (bet you'd never thought you'd hear that from anyone) was a brief consolation for the inevitable haircut later that day. I'm not a fan of the hairdresser's- having a stranger hack at something you've spent quite a while cultivating is a bit disappointing, to say the least. Also, I never have anything to say to the person performing this act; do I want to divulge my life story to this virtually unknown human being? I'm not great in social situations, in case you hadn't already gathered. Luckily though, this time my hair wasn't transformed into a stereotypical butch lesbian's. Phew.

Another strange thing that happened to me yesterday was what I had for tea- has anybody heard of 'pasta quills'? If you haven't, go and buy them now. They're like little porcupine spikes (hence the 'quills' part, obviously) but MADE OF PASTA. They were rather good, but they got me thinking- why are there different pasta types? They all taste the same! It's just that some are more difficult to eat than others- for instance, in Scarborough t'other day, I had some form of linguine with a tomato sauce, which I then proceeded to flick down the white shirt I was wearing. Admittedly, white was a mistaken colour choice, but I'm sure penne or those bows would have been more suitable for the task at hand.

Yours pasta-confusedly,

M.